


Temptation Was Never Red

by melo



Series: Temptation [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alien Invasion, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Dreamwalking, M/M, Mind Games, Mind/Mood Altering Substances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-31
Updated: 2011-07-31
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melo/pseuds/melo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a not so distant future, Angels came to Earth to harvest humanity for their bodies, locking captives in a dream state. Dean is a freed human who is part of a team that captures and converts Angels to the side of the Resistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural or any of it's characters.
> 
> Inspired by the episode 'Matriculated' from the 'Animatrix'.

It’s dark, lights off, windows boarded and exits sealed. The building is a ruin, rain dripping through the roof and bleeding through every floor, concrete cracked, support beams exposed and rusting. There’s no heating, no running water, most of the wiring is shot, but the inner chambers are functional. And as long as they can power the panic room, it’s serviceable.

The area’s already been evacuated, building locked down; rations, equipment and weapons packed minutes after the order was issued that morning, trucks shuttling people to safer territory within an hour.

The Angels know where they are.

“We’ve gotta go,” Chuck scurries along at his heels, white noise buzzing from the headset hanging off his neck, “We’ve got Angels coming in from the East.”

Dean kicks aside empty crates and steps into the former supplies room, “ETA?”

“Forty minutes,” Chuck’s fingers twitch towards the device wrapped around his wrist, tempted to check the seconds.

“We’re staying,” Dean feels Chuck tense behind him, but he ignores the smaller man; marches through the darkness and grabs the black case off the table in the center.

“What? We can’t stay!” voice high and strangled, Chuck’s hands fly into his hair, eyes panicked, “Are you insane? It takes twenty minutes just to clear the city – then you’ve got at least ten minutes without cover!” He’s nearly hyperventilating, fingers clawing down his face and pulling at his scraggly beard, “And you – they won’t just take you, they’ll _kill_ you!”

And yeah, Chuck’s not the only one who’d like to get the hell out of Dodge, but Dean shakes his head, “We’ll use the underground.”

He’s exited the room, already halfway down the hall, long strides taking him quickly across cracked tile before Chuck snaps back into action, running after Dean and crying frantically, “We don’t have a map! We can’t use the underground–“

“We have a map. And we can send an alert to the Stronghold,” Dean turns sharply; slams open the door to the stairwell. It’s pitch black, damp and smells like rotted wood. He squints into the dark and adjusts his hold on his flashlight, sweeping the beam of light up and down the crumbling stairs before he begins leaping down the steps, two at a time.

Chuck struggles to keep up, slipping through the puddles on each landing and skittering nervously down the steps missing railings, the light strapped to his forehead bobbing madly, “Come on, we’ve already got at least twenty-five Cherubs–”

Dean stops abruptly. Spins around in time for Chuck to collide with his chest and then glares down at the man, “Cherubs aren’t good enough. We need Seraphs.”

“Seraphs?” Chuck’s eyes are wide and bloodshot, skin looking sickly green in the light reflecting off the water slicked walls, “This one’s a Seraph?”

“Yeah,” Dean turns back, stomps down the last flight of stairs. Water splashes up around his feet when he hits the basement level; murky wetness seeping into his boots as he shoulders open the first door, hinges screaming, “Same one that’s been breathing down my neck for years.”

Dean slips through, drags Chuck after him by the collar of his shirt and shoves him towards the passage deeper in. Then he pulls the first door shut, spins the lock to seal the way. He follows Chuck into the passage and grabs the edge of the second door and swings it closed, then signals for the other man to help him hoist a heavy strip of metal up to bar the door.

They’re well practiced, so the process only takes seconds, but Dean’s pressed for time. He sets a brisk pace to the panic room, not sparing a glance as he asks, “Do you know how many Seraphs we’ve managed to catch?”

Chuck peeks down at his wrist, probably wondering if it’s rhetorical or if Dean wants the stats, “Uh–”

“One,” he switches off his flashlight as they approach the weak light of the inner chambers, “Just one. And do you know what a big difference Anna made?”

“Uh–”

“With her, we recovered half a state from those body-snatching dicks and freed twenty farms,” Dean rounds the corner, climbs the three steps to the threshold of the panic room, wet boot prints glistening under fluorescent light,” I’m not leaving ‘til we’ve got this bastard.”

Chuck scrambles up the steps, arms waving desperately, “But there’s no time–“

“Dean!” Becky bursts in from the adjoining chamber, one hand pressed over the earpiece of her headset, mic flipped up and out of the way,

“He’s starting to wake up. If we’re doing this, we’ve gotta do it _now_.”

Dean nods curtly, tosses Becky the black case he picked up, “The Chrism.”

Becky catches it one handed, flips the case open and pops a vial of red liquid out from the foam padding before hurrying to the far side of the panic room where the tank sits.

Dean leaves the operator to her work and turns to the trembling man beside him, knowing the programmer isn’t used to the pressure, “I’m going in. Chuck, you staying?”

The man’s scrawny frame is hunched over, face drawn and lips white with fear. Chuck looks ready to bolt, but his eyes are glued to his girlfriend’s back, watching her set up the syringe mechanism in the blue glow of the tank. He swallows compulsively, manages a choked noise of agreement and a nod.

Dean claps a hand to Chuck’s back, nearly knocking him into the stand of wires and drips, “Okay, let’s do this.”

Dean strips off his jacket and rolls the trolley of equipment to the cot next to the tank. He picks up a Halo and fixes it around his head, the arc of metal pressed firmly around the back of his skull. He adjusts it until the tips of the crescent rest just behind his temples like a calliper measuring the width of his head. Then he activates it, wincing as the three pins slide into place, slotting into the small apertures in the sides and back of his skull.

Chuck’s anxiety is almost suffocating, but at Dean’s grim look, he takes a deep breath, steadies his hands and turns to the instruments on the trolley, rotating dials and keying in codes to fix the wavelength and set the system. Then he starts pulling needles off the stand and inserting them into Dean’s flesh, careful to attach the proper drips. Finally, he focuses on the SCIN, getting confirmation from Becky that the tank’s been similarly primed before pushing Dean down onto the cot and correcting the path of the syringe that will soon be pressed into the vein of his arm.

With one final check of the wiring between the tank, the trolley equipment, and Dean, Chuck green lights the set up and follows Becky into the adjoining chamber, sealing the panic room behind him.

“Becky, all systems go?” Dean yells, turning his head to face the tank on his left.

His operator’s voice crackles in from the speaker above the viewing window, “We’re all set: tank’s filled, program’s feeding in, the Hook’s been launched, 40 cc’s of Chrism ready.”

Dean flexes his hands, feels the wires taped to his skin shift with the movement. Dean’s shivering in just his black tee, but the room won’t be cold for long. His eyes flick to the increments that mark the side of the tank, noting the level of water and hoping it’s enough. He can already see the first wisps of steam wafting from the open top.

Becky buzzes through the intercom, the sound of keys clacking, “Damnit, I’m reading eighth degree frequencies and rising, Grace peaking at 6.0 – you better move fast, Dean.”

“You got it,” and Dean heard Chuck fretting about the ETA in the background so he adds, “Chuck, watch for dicks and message Sam: We’ll be running late.”

He can almost picture Chuck shaking out of his skin, but he knows the man will suck it up and head to the comms room down the hall. He’ll be alone and he’ll be the first to know when the shit hits the fan and Dean trusts him not to bail.

Dean feels the familiar thrum building in the Halo and he gives the thumbs up to the window on his right, “’Kay – cast the line and take us under!”

Machines start whirring and clicking around him. He watches as the SCIN twitches into life, the clear red of the Chrism diverted into two tubes, one for Dean and one for the tank’s occupant. Dean feels the sting of the syringe piercing skin, sees the needle sliding into the arm of the Seraph at the same time it slides into Dean’s. He watches the red disappear and the syringe withdraw; feels the second prick of the synchronizer pumping both him and the Angel with the linking agent, circulating it between them.

He smirks to himself as he feels the drugs kicking in.

Looks like this time, Dean will be the one invading Castiel’s personal space.

“Paradise online in five – four – three – two – one – ”


	2. Chapter 2

Dean opens his eyes to the clear blue of a summer sky. The sun is bright, shining warm and pleasant against Dean’s skin and lighting the tall grass at the edge of his vision a vivid green.

He sits up and _holyshit_ , he’s in a meadow of flowers. An unending, horizon to horizon, meadow of flowers.

Of course. Chuck might be one of their best programmers – a master in his field – but he still bends to the will of his girlfriend like a twig in the wind.

Dean sighs. The rainbow of petals surrounding him are a bit cheesy and Dean doesn’t know what Becky is expecting to happen, but at least it’s just the opening sequence. Chuck will have added plenty of layers for Dean to manipulate and maneuver through. He only hopes that it’ll be enough since he sent the smaller man to cover comms and if Dean needs further assistance, he won’t have a programmer to give it to him.

He pushes himself to his feet, scanning the field for signs of his target, looking for the slightest irregularity in the soft sway of grass.

Normally, a conversion team consists of six people: an operator, a programmer, a comms officer, a guard and two sleepers. Unfortunately, they’re a little short on help, so Dean will have to do the work of two sleepers and with no programmer. Even worse, they don’t have a guard and they’re in certain danger, so though Becky can hold pretty well with a gun, they’re sitting ducks waiting for the hunter’s lunch break to end.

With a full team, it takes approximately twenty minutes in Real Time to convert a Cherub. The Milton team – the only group so far to capture and bind a Seraph – took one hour Real Time. And now Dean, without back up, has gone under with the Seraph who was sent to kill him – whose power is an unknown quantity and whose readings showed signs of resistance – hoping that their strange rapport is enough to make him bite within thirty minutes.

Chuck was right about him being nuts, but it’s a necessary insanity, so Dean picks a direction and starts walking. It looks aimless, but with every step Dean takes, he shifts the ground, contracting the field and forcing the edges to pull in, dragging everything within its boundaries towards him. He knows Castiel is here, he just has to make the prickly bastard show himself.

Every one of his senses are on high alert as the land rushes around him, grasses compressing into nothing as they get sucked beneath the points of his feet. Their edited version of Paradise combined with the Chrism should bring the Angel’s power down, but Dean’s not going to underestimate the Seraph. Castiel’s been strangely civil with him, but there’s no telling how he’ll react to this.

Then, from the corner of his eye, Dean sees a flicker of tan and dives out of the path of a silver blade that slashes through the air where his neck was a second before. Dean spins around, sending out a kick and connecting with the stomach of his attacker. He hears the sharp exhale that is part surprise and part pain, then the thump of a body landing in the grass. Dean takes the time to brush imaginary dust off his hands, knowing that he shouldn’t but unable to resist gloating over the sprawled form of his would-be-assassin.

He looms over the Angel who lies on his back panting, body convulsing sporadically, fingers twitching and eyes wild with panicked confusion.

“What have you done to me?” he growls, blue eyes narrowing at Dean, tone threatening despite the arms curled weakly across his chest.

Dean grins, “Just broadening your horizons,” he kneels next to him, giving him a friendly pat to the shoulder and trying not to take too much pleasure in the way the Seraph grimaces and tries to shy away, “Gotta say, I was expecting more of a fight – but hey, I’m not complaining. It’s good to see you loosened up.”

It’s a strange sight, but Castiel scowls up at Dean, face an open book that Dean knows the Seraph can’t close with the Chrism prying the connection between Angel and Vessel wide open. The Vessel’s mind might be gone, but his human software can still be activated and now the Angel will have to deal with the complete package. No more body-snatching without hooking up to every nerve ending and feeling every feeling.

“Release me,” Castiel’s almost spitting now. Dean doesn’t know if the Angel’s reacting violently because of the unfamiliar sensation of grass and sunlight against his skin or because of his new party package of emotions.

Probably both, but even if time passes more slowly in Paradise, there’s not enough of it for Castiel to waste throwing a hissy fit, so Dean grabs the Angel’s hand and drags him to his feet.

Castiel makes a whining sound in the back of his throat, slumping into Dean and probably wishing he hadn’t dropped his knife so he could stab Dean in the face. Dean just chuckles and starts walking them forward, already calling up the scene he’d like to visit.

The sickly sweet scent of flowers quickly fades into the sharp tang of a salty breeze; disintegrating meadow falling away in curling strips to reveal soft white sands and lapping waves. Then they’re standing on the shore of the Pacific Ocean, a place Dean hasn’t seen since he was a boy and probably won’t see again.

Castiel scrunches his nose at the new scent and squints towards the sun hanging low in the West, drinking in the diamonds of light reflecting off the crests of distant waves and obviously not comprehending the exercise. Dean manhandles the Angel over to a red and white checkered sheet spread near the water, sitting them on the cloth to face each other.

“What are you doing, Dean Winchester,” Castiel’s mouth is twisted into an ugly snarl, blue eyes drilling into Dean’s green and projecting his wrath. Dean’s impressed with how quickly the Angel’s learning to direct his newly expanded emotions, but he’s not here to nurture violence – and that’s a laugh and a half because Dean’s not exactly Mr. Compassion. Sam should be the one giving the motivational speeches and he would be if he hadn’t been injured and sent back to the Stronghold.

“We’re having a picnic,” he gestures at the basket between them, smiling awkwardly at the Angel.

Castiel just stares at Dean, posture hardening like the Angel turned from flesh to stone while Dean was blinking.

“Yup. A picnic,” Dean opens the lid of the wicker basket, takes out the apples and sandwiches he remembers eating with his family.

He pulls Castiel’s stiff hand towards him, plopping one of the apples into his palm and closing the Angel’s fingers around it. The Seraph remains in the position Dean leaves him in like he’s a store front mannequin.

Dean feels anger flare briefly in his chest. It’s stupid, but he feels personally insulted and he needs to go home and give medals of honour to all the sleepers he’s ever worked with. He never realized how hard it was to be a Primary, to expose oneself like this and share memories with one of the things that destroyed their world.

That train of thought makes him want to strangle the creature, but he’s risking Chuck and Becky for the chance to convert the Seraph, so he reminds himself that this isn’t just any Angel, it’s Castiel. And that shouldn’t make him feel better, but it does. He calms and says, “You’ve probably never eaten before and you won’t really be eating now, but you’ll still be able to taste it here.”

The Seraph’s mouth barely moves, eyes like flint, “Of what import is the taste of an apple.”

“No _import_ at all. Just eat the damn thing,” Dean smiles crookedly, bites into his own apple, “If you want this to be over faster – you’ve gotta work with me.”

The ire on Castiel’s face falters as he stares warily at the red fruit in his hand, but he doesn’t bite. Instead, the angel throws a defiant look at Dean that makes the man want to shove the apple up the bastard’s nose. But it doesn’t work that way – the Angel has to do it himself – so Dean crushes the impulse and moves on.

“Okay then, so you want to do this the hard way,” Dean drops his half eaten apple onto the blanket, grabs Castiel’s feet and proceeds to yank off the Angel’s shoes.

Castiel makes a surprised hissing noise, flapping his arms and kicking out his legs at the feeling of Dean’s warm fingers sliding around his ankles, pulling wool socks off pale feet. Dean rolls up the Angel’s pant legs before shucking off his own shoes and socks, and then he grips Castiel’s wrist, wrenches him off the checkered sheet and onto the sand.

The Seraph looks like he might scream as he stumbles across the beach behind him. Dean is torn between exasperation and amusement. He can’t imagine what the Angel’s feeling as he’s assaulted by sensation after sensation. It can’t be entirely pleasant, but it can’t be all that terrible either.

When they reach the edge of the shore where dry sand becomes wet, Dean turns back to look at Castiel and raises his brows at the sight that greets him. Sometime in the past ten second walk, a tornado must have swept over the Seraph and left his black hair a wild tangle, his tie flung back over his shoulder and trench coat hanging off one arm.

Dean just sighs and pushes the Angel’s trench the rest of the way off, leaving it to puddle on the sand and tugging Castiel into the water.

Then the Angel does scream. Sort of.

It’s a short and sharp wail and Castiel tries to rip his wrist from Dean’s hand, but Dean doesn’t let go. He just brings Castiel further out into the water with him, cackling as the cold water nips at his flesh, relishing the feel of waves folding against his skin and the squelch of sand between his toes.

He’s standing there with ocean water licking at his calves and his company is trying to claw his way to freedom, but Dean feels strangely relaxed. And this is one of Dean’s good memories and he’s supposed to be spreading the joy, so he tells Castiel, “Dude, just calm down. You’ll get used to it.”

The Angel eventually stops struggling, adjusting to the new feel of his body and finally realizing that his super human strength doesn’t work here.

Cautiously, the Angel lifts his right foot out of the water and then sets it back down with a soft splash. He does the same with his left foot and soon he’s stepping in place, the slap of water like the jingle of a tambourine, counterpoint to the crash of ocean waves.

When Castiel’s finally settled and started to wiggle his toes curiously under the water, Dean gathers himself, thinks on his memories and not the pressing situation.

He focuses on the crisp breeze that ruffles through his hair, the distant cry of birds returning to their nests; lets his eyes wander across the reddening sky, lungs filling with the scent of the sea. Then he starts speaking, voice matching the hush of water against sand, “When I was younger, my family would come here every summer. It was a road trip from Kansas to California and the car ride was pretty boring, but reaching here – the ocean – always made it worth it. Staring at oceans of grass all year and then getting to see the real thing.”

Dean tastes the salt on the air, closes his eyes, “My brother and I, we’d have a bunch of contests. See who could hold his breath the longest, who could swim faster. Sammy always won those ones, but that’s because he was hiding air pockets in his girly hair and his feet were like freaking flippers.”

He snorts, remembering stepping on Sammy’s toes whenever he lost – which was always, “Afterwards – when the sun went down – we’d all get out of the water, Mom would spread out the picnic blanket and we’d have sandwiches and apples. Dad would build a little fire and we’d make smores and roast marshmallows,” Dean’s lips quirk into a smile, thinking on how he and Sammy used to tease their Mom and Dad about cheesy romance, “Then Mom and Dad would take their moonlight stroll down the beach while Sam and I had one last contest.

Mom never liked it when we did this, but we’d sneak off and see who could go farthest in the cold water before turning back. I always just jumped right in and started swimming, but Sammy would take maybe three steps before he’d run screaming back to shore.”

Dean smirks, “Dad always said I won ‘cause I was a hot-headed brat, but at least I wasn’t the mermaid.”

With the warmth lighting his face fading, Dean lets his eyes drift open in time with the sinking sun, coming back to himself like he’s waking from a trance.

He finds Castiel staring intently at him, no trace of his earlier anger in his expression – actually, there’s not much expression at all.

“You know, it takes two to have a conversation. It would be nice if you said something for once,” Dean huffs, frustrated and embarrassed as he remembers where he is and realizes how sappy he’d just been. It’s like he’d accidentally spilled his guts all over the sand when he’d only been required to break the skin of his belly. Bad move on Dean’s part.

Thankfully, Castiel graces Dean with an answer, though it’s not much, “We have spoken on many occasions.”

“Yeah, a few sentences squeezed in between bullets don’t count,” even with the implication of guns in that sentence, Dean feels like a whining girl and he fights the flush he can feel rising on the back of his neck, made worse by his next demand, “Talk to me.”

The Angel’s eyes dart to the side like he’s checking for eavesdroppers, “Why do you wish to converse with me?”

They both know Dean’s got ulterior motives, but Dean really does have things to say and questions he’d like the Seraph to answer, namely, “Why don’t you kill me?”

And that’s not really an answer to the Angel’s question – except it is.

Castiel rocks back on his heels like Dean’s punched him, jaw clenching. His reaction should mean that Dean’s response was unexpected, but it’s not surprise in the Angel’s eyes.

“You’re the only one that ever comes close to ganking me – hell, no one else can even _find_ me – but you never follow through,” Dean watches Castiel closely, “More than thirty chances, but I’m still alive.”

The Seraph is an immovable boulder, but Dean pushes on, “The first few times, I thought it was ‘cause I was just that good. But then it kept happening, so I thought maybe I was really lucky,” Dean’s eyes fly to the twitch of a muscle in Castiel’s neck, “I’ve seen you lead ops that go off without a hitch and watched you capture whole caravans – but you can’t kill one man?”

“Bullshit,” Dean pokes a finger in Castiel’s chest, “I’m right, aren’t I? You _let_ me live.”

It would probably be smarter not to question it, gift horses and all that, but whatever this is has been hanging around the edges of every one of their meetings like a shadow they both see but are never fast enough to catch. And Dean is sick and tired of how the air always seems to thicken when they fight – it’s not even the tension of battle, it’s just fucking _thick air_ – and he hates how his guard inexplicably falls when he’s alone with the Angel that was sent to _kill him_.

It’s dangerous and stupid and Dean might just be imagining things – Castiel’s certainly not shedding any light on the situation, clamed up and standing still as a statue – but Dean will grasp whatever straws he can because maybe the Seraph doesn’t understand why he lets Dean live, but Dean might. And Dean needs to hold onto that – the idea that the Angels aren’t an unstoppable force; that they can crumble and fall to earth.

Dean would die before he admitted it out loud, but the Angels are overwhelming them and he knows the Resistance can’t last much longer. Twenty-five cherubs aren’t enough. Anna isn’t enough. Weapons are only as good as the hands that hold them, and human hands have only a vague idea of how to direct the powers of Angels.

And maybe Castiel won’t be enough, but Dean’s got to try. He needs the Angel to cave, with dirty tricks or persuasion, whichever works.

So hearing the slight quiver in the Angel’s breath, Dean moves to stand in front of the Seraph and tries again, “You can feel, can’t you?” he gestures towards Castiel with an open palm, hand catching the last rays of sunlight.

Castiel doesn’t answer, so Dean continues gruffly, “Can’t you feel the sand? The water and the wind and the sun?”

Dean looks to Castiel for a response, any response, “How humans feel all the time – what it means to have a body?”

The Seraph remains silent, his eyes skirting around Dean. But Dean doesn’t stop, just steps closer, “We’re physical things. You guys are like energy or something, but with this…” Dean wets his lips anxiously, “You can see, can’t you – that we’re not just miserable ‘mud monkeys’?”

There’s a flicker of something and Dean’s lungs stutter like he’s been fighting for hours though he’s only been speaking for minutes. He takes the Angel’s hand in both of his, lifts it to the space between their chests, “We aren’t all connected like Angels are, but we touch–“ Dean strokes his fingers down Castiel’s palm “–and we feel,” he leans in, searching Castiel’s eyes hopefully, desperately.

There’s the slight puff of Castiel’s breath, warm against his cheek, but still no answer, “It’s different from how you guys do it. But it’s not less.”

He feels like he’s trying to resuscitate a lost cause and he shakes his head, voice breaking, “You _know_ we aren’t less.”

Dean’s focus is absolute and he sees the marbles that are Castiel’s eyes seem to liquefy; watches the gradual bloom of summer blue as pupils contract, gaze sharpening and piercing into Dean. And there’s a moment where Dean thinks Castiel might finally acknowledge what he’s saying – what’s _true_ – where every word they’ve shared and all the mid-battle banter have finally added up to mean something. But then the Angel’s looking at some point past Dean’s ear, and his voice is as toneless as it’s been every time before, “Release me, Dean Winchester."

But Dean doesn’t. He saw something spark in Castiel and he can’t give up, so he just tightens his jaw and steps back, summoning the next landscape.

The metronome of rushing water turns to squeals of laughter and the thundering pound of wheels rolling across rails. The ocean waves slow and spike up into coarse patches of grass and swaths of trodden earth, brightly coloured tents spring up from the sand and people filter in from between the fluttering cloths.

Dean and Castiel stand in the middle of a fair ground, feet bare and dripping salt water.

Booths for cotton candy, the scent of hot dogs and popcorn wafting from their stands, striped game tents and ride line ups that twist through the aisles. Somewhere past the tents, pens of animals being lead around for show, giving small children rides and eating from the palms of handlers. Roller coasters stretching up to the sky, carrying cars of screaming thrill seekers reaching for the clouds; a Ferris wheel making its slow rounds, lights flashing in patterns over its spokes, and show hosts and ride operators calling from all corners, beckoning the crowds closer.

Castiel puts his free hand over his ear, spinning around as far as Dean’s arm will let him as he tries to block out the sudden rush of sound and activity. Dean doesn’t even give him a second to adjust before pulling on his hand, possibly dislocating the Angel’s shoulder but not caring as he hauls Castiel through the press of bodies towards the row of food stands.

He’s pissed but he puts a leash on his anger, knowing he needs to keep his head. Dean had felt so sure that he’d finally, _finally_ crack the Angel open. But maybe he never will, and Dean feels a pang of fear – because everything hinges on Dean reaching Castiel, just long enough to make this stick – as he scans the stalls for the booth that can seal the deal.

He spots it on the right and jerks the Angel to his side, making him trip over the lumpy grass and hoping his bare feet are enjoying the twigs and crap littering the ground. Then he’s shouting directly into Castiel’s ear, a lot louder than necessary, “I promised Sammy we’d go to the fair when I got my driver’s licence. I was planning on driving the Impala – the queen of cars, by the way – but my Dad was using her that fall. So when the fair finally opened, I had to drive three freaking hours in a half-junked car to get us here.”

They reach the small booth and Dean plucks two candied apples from a tray. Even through his anger he can feel an irrational surge of guilt as he stabs one of the sticks into the curl of the Seraph’s fingers. He feels like he’s that stranger that gives kids bad candy, and he shouldn’t – because this is an Angel, and it’s not Dean’s fault Castiel’s such a stubborn bitch – but Dean still feels dirty and hides it behind a cheery grin, “Candied apple – first thing I ate when we got here and a must eat treat at any fair.”

Castiel looks distrustfully at him, probably seeing the strain in Dean’s smile and the slight flexing of his fists.

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean bobs his head in encouragement, licks along the curve of his own apple where glossy green skin peeks out from under the red glaze, “You don’t want to listen to me, and okay, I get that I’m asking for a lot – but at least try the apple. And if you still don’t get it, then I’ll fuck off. I’ll let you go.”

Castiel’s eyes dart between Dean – who’s making a real show of enjoying the candy surface – and the fruit speared on the stick in his fist.

Dean’s lips press against the apple around the notches where his teeth have started to scrape, but he stills when Castiel brings his snack gingerly towards his mouth. He tries not to stare, but can’t stop measuring the shrinking distance between the apple and the Angel’s mouth.

Just one bite. That’s all it takes.

But then the Seraph stops, frowns and turns suspicious eyes on him.

He tries to look like he’s absorbed in his treat, but Castiel’s always been able to call his bluffs. So when Castiel drops the candied apple to the dirt and straightens to his full height, Dean isn’t surprised.

Dean lowers his own apple, licks his lips carefully to clean them of the red sweetness and notices how Castiel watches him with slanted eyes – curious, cautious – gaze flicking briefly to the blood red on Dean’s mouth.

Dean steps towards the Angel, crowding him against the side of the booth, watching the Seraph watching him. The Angel doesn’t say anything, but Dean knows Castiel senses the danger in the taste that still coats Dean’s tongue. The apples aren’t just any virtual apples, and for a moment, Dean wonders what exactly the parameters of the Hook are and just how potent it is.

He doesn’t know how he can even consider it, but he does. Dean thinks about leaning in those last few inches and pressing his reddened mouth over Castiel’s; thinks about snaking his tongue between the Seraph’s lips and smearing the thick syrup across the Angel’s teeth. Dean could let the sweetness sink into the Seraph’s gums and push the flavour into the corners of his mouth. With his hand he could seize the Angel’s hair, pull his head back and open him up to let the juice of the apple trickle across the bridge of their tongues and down Castiel’s throat.

He could try that, but he doesn’t know if it’s the act of acceptance or the apple that counts. It’s probably a bit of both – and the chances of Castiel licking Dean? – zero.

That any of this even occurred to him is ridiculous and he feels uncomfortable that his greatest concern with the plan isn’t the shoving-tongue-in part but the fact that Castiel would just bite him for his efforts. It’s probably just because Dean’s desperate for this to work. Desperate times call for desperate measures and so on.

Of course, none of that explains the personal disappointment and bizarre relief he feels at Castiel being too guarded to fall for any of Dean’s shitty tricks. They’re unsafe feelings that Dean murders and buries with the other conflicting emotions that Castiel always dredges up – the ones that always come back like zombies when the Seraph’s near.

He backs away from the Angel uneasily, trying not to let any of his confusion or discomfort show on his face. Only when they’re standing an appropriate distance apart does Dean lift his eyes from the knot of Castiel’s tie.

The Angel’s pupils are blown and his body is strung high with tension. Dean can see the gears of Castiel’s mind turning away, trying to process the situation and figure out what Dean’s trying to do.

At least Castiel still doesn’t know what’s going on, so the game’s not over yet, but Dean feels stirred up and angry at the Angel for being so irritating. Castiel always makes him feel like he’s got a split personality disorder and Dean doesn’t appreciate it. If he would just eat the damn apple, Dean wouldn’t be coming up with stupid plans and having to suffer through freaking heart to hearts.

He grunts, mouth drawing into a thin line. He’ll have to save his frustrated wall-punching for later though, so he whips his candied apple into a nearby trashcan and grabs Castiel’s wrist in a bruising grip instead.

Dean forces them through the hordes to the nearest rollercoaster, yelling to be heard over the clamour, “If you’re not going to try the food, they you’re going to ride a roller coaster. Freaking suicide trains, those things, but here we go!”

Dean watches Castiel’s concentration break – no more thinking about the apples – as he blanches. The Seraph tries digging in his heels, eyes flying to the looping monster ahead of them and Dean thinks that that face alone is almost worth the motion sickness he’s about to re-experience. He laughs cruelly, dragging the Angel with him.

There’s an empty place in the line just for them and Dean slots them into it, moving with the crowd as the gate opens and the ride operator motions for the next round to find their seats.

He jostles Castiel forward, seats them both, elbowing the Seraph in the chest and keeping his arm thrown out to bar the Angel from clambering back out. Castiel shoots him a stony glare, but the Angel still jumps with every brush of skin and Dean takes full advantage of his weakened state.

Then the safety guards are snapping down, keeping them in their seats and the ride starts, cars slowly chugging forward up the first steep incline.

Castiel’s breath is coming in short gasps and Dean wonders what exactly Castiel’s afraid of. Dean‘s seen Angels plunge off the sides of four story buildings, forcing their Vessels to get up afterwards to continue a chase. He wonders if this is a good thing; a sign that Castiel is beginning to anticipate the feel of things.

If that’s the case, this might not be the best way to convince the Seraph that humans aren’t stupid.

Dean just turns his face forward, shrugging to himself. This was a good memory, and it might be petty and spiteful of him to add a little pain to the learning experience, but he blames it on the stick up Castiel’s ass. On the beach, Dean was practically throwing his heart at the silent bastard. The Angel can take a little gut twisting and maybe – not that Dean’s hoping for it – some vomiting.

When they reach the top of the first peak, the cars shudder to a stop. Castiel turns his head desperately to Dean, mouth opening and closing, babbling soundlessly and Dean has the chance to say “Oh, so _now_ you want to talk–“

Then they’re rocketing down the slope, wind roaring through their ears and bodies pushed back into their seats, bouncing up and down as the cars roll over the rickety construction. The questionable safety of the ride and the screech of metal grinding on metal are exactly as Dean remembers, and so are the weightless drop of his stomach and the scream – actually a yell, _not_ a scream – that gets pulled from his throat.

All his anger and frustration have been left somewhere at the starting platform along with his balls and Dean feels nothing but terror and nausea. His teeth are chattering with the bumpy ride and Dean’s squinting, eyes tearing from the wind, but he cuts a glance to his left and sees that Castiel seems to have eaten his lips, leaving a comical line across his face that underscores dinner plate eyes.

Dean wants to laugh, but he wasted all his air screaming – _yelling_ – and so he just grips the flimsy bar that’s holding them in the car, white knuckled hand next to Castiel’s equally white knuckled hand.

They reach the bottom of the first valley, but they’re still going fast and quickly climb the next hill. Dean feels like his stomach has turned into a wind tunnel, contents suspended somewhere in freefall as the cars sail over another few crests, speeding and slowing with sickening jerks when they make curvy turns Dean’s sure should have derailed them.

Then they’re zooming towards the big loop and Dean looks over to check on his companion’s state. The Angel’s hair is flapping in the wind like the strands might jump ship and leave him bald. His face tells Dean he’s about ready to either shit bricks or vomit them and Dean’s sure he doesn’t look much better.

Their eyes meet briefly in united terror and then they’re in the loop.

Dean’s eyelids spasm as his body tries to decide between watching the blur of colour that is the world turning upside down, or leaving his stomach to guess what’s happening in the dark of his closed eyes. He can feel his organs spilling around in his chest cavity, heart trying to evacuate via his throat and brain slapping the roof of his skull asking him, _Why, Dean, why?_

And Dean can’t answer because he’s screaming and Castiel is screaming and all the people in the other cars are screaming and none of them are screaming for ice cream.

Then, suddenly, the ride’s over and the cars are docked, safety rail lifting.

Dean thinks he might have blacked out for a few seconds, but the important thing is that Dean is able to crawl out of the car, Castiel right behind him.

They stagger away from the ride to the side of a nearby tent before slumping onto the sparse grass, faces haunted and pale.

“Why, Dean, why?” Castiel asks feebly after they catch their breaths.

“It’s a good memory,” Dean grins weakly, “But mostly it’s for being such a difficult prick, Cas,” and Castiel looks at him like he’s considering classifying Dean as a terrible new species, prompting a nervous little laugh from Dean.

He sounds a bit hysterical and that matches his rattled nerves just fine, but then Castiel’s shoulders start quivering. Dean can’t stop the glee that bubbles up in his chest as he watches the Angel’s mouth twitch up and down silently, hands hugging the sides of his suit jacket as he struggles with the loss of control. Then they’re both shaking with tight laughter, painful looking smiles on their faces as the trauma of the roller coaster rushes away and leaves them light and relieved.

Castiel chokes a little on his spit, and Dean relaxes into a genuine laugh, smacking the Angel’s back to help clear his airway. Dean’s hand lingers briefly on the Seraph’s spine before sliding onto the grass, feeling lazy and strangely content.

Castiel is quickly regaining control of himself – face of sculpted stone, steady as ever – and Dean’s a bit disappointed but not enough to ruin his mood.

“I’d get it if this was your first roller coaster – but please tell me you’ve laughed before,” Dean smiles dryly at his companion.

“I have...” Castiel rolls his eyes evasively away and Dean’s face breaks into a wide grin.

“Are you lying to me, Cas?”

“No...”

Dean punches the Angel in the shoulder, eyes crinkling in delight, “Damn, Cas! Two lies in a row – don’t hurt yourself.”

Castiel glowers at him, but there’s no heat to it, “I have experienced joy before, Dean.”

Dean leans closer, curious, “Yeah? What from?”

“Flight.”

“Flight? I always thought you were like... a ball of energy. Now you have wings?” Dean has trouble picturing it.

“No, Dean. We are not entities of pure energy. Our forms are simply composed of a substance you cannot perceive,” Castiel explains like he’s indulging a small child, although no small child Dean knows would understand what was just said.

Dean’s too interested to mind though, “But you do have wings?”

“They are unlike the wings of your birds,” Castiel pauses, picking his words with care, “I use the term ‘flight’ because it best describes the motion I experience. However, the ‘wings’ are not for carrying my body. Rather, they cut a temporary opening into the fabric of space through which I may travel.”

Dean’s jaw drops open, eyes wide, “You fly through freaking _wormholes_?”

“Yes,” Castiel almost sounds embarrassed, like the ability to rip the universe a new one whenever you want to go to the corner store is nothing to get excited over.

Dean’s going to jizz in his pants, “So you can reach anywhere in the universe?”

“Yes, though the distance that can be covered depends on the individual and it’s inadvisable to travel in this manner when the destination has not been previously visited.”

He leans forward, “What’s it like, travelling through wormholes?” Dean sounds like a kid, but he can’t help it, and if Sam ever finds out he’s secretly a big space geek Dean will never hear the end of it, “How many places have you been? Have you been to the center of the universe? Have you been to the _edge_ of the universe? Holyshit – are there _multiple_ universes?”

Castiel draws back from Dean, and that’s when he realizes that he’d been inching into Castiel’s space with every question he asked. Dean’s almost crawling into the Seraph’s lap and he quickly withdraws, sitting back on the grass and rubbing the nape of his neck sheepishly.

“Yeah... just... answer whichever questions you can – if you want to, I mean.”

The corners of Castiel’s mouth tip up ever so slightly, “Then I will start with the first.”

Dean perks up, eager – though he’ll never admit it.

“It is difficult to describe how I travel. No human has ever seen what I’ve seen and thus none of your languages are adequate, but I can tell you that it’s beautiful,” Castiel seems to recede into his thoughts, his body, unsupervised, loosens like a rock from a riverbed – rounding smooth in the stream instead of hiding jagged in the mud.

“There are all the colours of your visible spectrum and spectrums that no eye from Earth could see; wavelengths that would be fatal to you but are soothing to me. All these sights come together in a blur that is both organic and geometric, more than visions, but also sounds; the presence and absence of light; matter that is there, not there, half there.”

Dean can’t imagine any of it, but he hears the wonder in Castiel’s voice, and it’s almost the same.

“There are things behind the cloth of space that appeal to senses that are none of your five and all of them at once. And when I fly through it, my Grace stretched out to guide my way, it is like–” Castiel looks at Dean as if _Dean_ is the word that finishes his sentence, but then Castiel’s eyes flash and he glances away, “It is... beautiful... but dangerous and at times, unsettling,” Castiel falls silent.

Dean swallows, feeling jittery for no reason, “...Dangerous? I mean, for me it would be, but you – you make it sound like... like your home.”

Castiel considers Dean from beneath half-mast lids, “There are things that exist in those channels that can drive one mad. Whole planes of nothingness, windows into pure destruction, offshoots that I have never dared to even look at. And there are things that are Other, in the sense that they do not belong anywhere at all, but cleave to you like they do.”

There is something in the way that Castiel speaks of the Other that makes Dean shiver, and he wants to ask why. He wants to ask if those terrible things are trapped in between space, if they can get out, but when he opens his mouth he doesn’t say anything.

Somehow he knows that whatever Castiel saw, it’s been free for a long time now.

Instead, Dean says, “Sounds like a roller coaster ride to me,” smiles tentatively, “A death trap – but addictive.”

“The roller coaster is nowhere near as beautiful,” Castiel says, like the Captain Obvious that he is.

But Dean’s smile warms, “Yeah, I get that.”

Castiel’s head tilts slightly, like Dean’s lack of logic is contagious and messing with his balance, “If there is only the ‘death trap’ portion, why did you ride it the first time, and then again just now? You said it was a good memory, but why?”

Dean likes how Castiel ignores the part where Dean called him a ‘difficult prick’, answers anyways, “This is probably going to make me sound crazy, but you don’t get to judge me. You’re the one flying past ‘windows of pure destruction.’”

Dean chuckles, flopping onto his back, “So, when I rode that roller coaster for real, it didn’t end like this – it might have been worse, in a way, because after I got off the ride with Sammy, I threw up,” his face twists, almost tasting the nausea again, “It was probably the chilli dogs we had that screwed me over, so be thankful we didn’t have any – virtual or not.”

He can’t see Castiel from the dirt, but the Angel’s sitting right next to him and Dean knows he’s listening – even to the silly details, “So it might not make sense that it’s a good memory – I mean, fuck – I puked all over the grass like an out of control slushie machine. People were asking me if I needed an ambulance and there was this one kid who said he could see my kidney on the ground.”

Dean claps a hand over his eyes, feeling horrifically embarrassed all over again, “And you know what? Sam – that little punk – just stood there. Laughed until he cried. He was a little grossed out, but mostly he just laughed.”

He shakes his head, smiling, “We made a really big scene. It’s hard to _not_ notice the kid that’s projectile vomiting with his baby brother apparently crying at his side. And yeah, some of the staff came and made me lie down and Mom had to pick us up and that part wasn’t fun – not that the other parts were – but this gave Sam so much material to tease me with,” he grins fondly, “And he did – ruthlessly – for two months. It was freaking annoying, but worth it.”

Dean slides his hand off his face and Castiel leans into his field of vision, mouth turned into a small frown, “How? That doesn’t sound remotely enjoyable.”

“It wasn’t, but it was good to see Sammy laugh...” Dean’s smile falls, “Our parents... Well, no marriage is perfect, but that fall was the worst.”

Dean grinds his teeth, fingers carding through his hair as he brings his eyes nervously from the purple tent cloth to his companion.

Castiel looms like a rock face above Dean, but lying in his shadow feels more like taking shelter than dodging threats, and it’s enough to strengthen Dean, “I don’t know what the fight was about, but Mom kicked Dad out for six weeks. Every time he called or came through the door, they’d – we could hear them from anywhere in the house when they really started laying into each other.”

He pauses, worrying at his lower lip, “We – Sam thought they’d break up.”

Dean’s sixteen again – sixteen feeling like seven, “No more ‘I dunno, ask your mother’ or ‘John, you’re burning the toast’. No more ‘Spring Cleaning’ in August or pancake deliveries to the garage. No more Fort Mom’n’Dad versus Casa Sam’n’Dean in the winter. No more summers at the beach.”

The Seraph’s face remains impassive but his eyes are lights on Dean, “But was there more?”

Dean can’t look at Castiel.

He doesn’t know how he forgot the reason for all the sharing and caring, but he did. For a while, he’d actually felt, well – _happy_ – and somehow he’d said things he’d never told anyone else before. He’d just started talking – not because it was necessary and for no reason besides wanting to – and that’s just bad form. Awful fucking form.

The source of his hesitation reminds him who he’s with and why he’s here and all his earlier anger, all the rage built over a lifetime comes bleeding forwards. And like a smelting pot, there pours in the bile of a wounded animal, as if it’s Castiel’s fault Dean laid himself open; the sting of betrayal, as if it’s Castiel’s fault Dean forgot who he was talking to.

Maybe it’s because he’s in Paradise or maybe it’s because he’s pumped full of drugs. It might be because he’s never left himself so exposed to an enemy before or felt like a traitor to his kind. It feels like the Angel has conned him when it was Dean who was supposed to be running the scam, but whatever the cause, Dean feels the jagged pieces of fury line up into a fine honed edge inside him and liquid nitrogen shoots through his veins.

It’s not like all the other times he’s lost his head. He doesn’t see red and his fists don’t fly out uncontrollably. He doesn’t swear and yell and kick out at the world in retaliation.

He’s calm, collected, purposeful though he can’t care about his job right now – he’s in no condition to keep playing the game – so he’ll settle for sliding in a last blade and twisting it just right.

The wound will only last for the rest of the Paradise session since the Angel’s emotional access will be revoked once he leaves, but he’s vulnerable right now. Dean might not be good with words, but pain is an old friend.

He turns back to face the Angel, noting the Vessel’s dishevelled clothing and bare feet. He says then, voice easy frost, “These are the grounds of the Kansas State Fair, September 9th, 2094. On the 23rd of January the following year, the sun burns blue for seven hours and half the world’s population disappears in what would come to be known as the Rapture. One month later, they return as the Vessels of Angels and by December 2095, the first farms have been formed.”

The Seraph is a fortress bricked from granite again, but Dean can’t feel sorry to see it happen – can’t afford to – so continues blind with eyes wide open, narrating a document, “On February 2nd, 2096, the Burning of the Mississippi destroys one Resistance base and three survivor camps, claiming over a thousand lives, including one Mary Winchester. Five months later, the Archangel Michael descends from the Host and acquires his Vessel, formerly John Winchester.”

Dean blinks slowly, films of ice sliding open-closed, “But you know most of that already.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything, just sits there, ever the immovable object.

And Dean smiles because he didn’t expect anything else. Words fall from his mouth, icicles, glass, “It’s funny, how you wear us like protective jumpsuits, switch bodies when they get worn out.”

Castiel looks away at that, and Dean’s smile grows, splits across his face, a knife spreading snow, “You don’t even enjoy using us; we’re disgusting blobs you only touch to avoid blipping out of existence.”

Dean rolls onto his hands and knees, crawls over and sits back on his heels in front of the Seraph, “I’ve heard you Angels talking. You look at us – see stupid, senseless things – and decide that there’s nothing wrong with farming us like cotton for clothes.”

Then finally, like a ventriloquist’s doll, Castiel speaks. He remains seated, legs crossed and back straight but his voice is shockingly desperate, “That’s not true.”

“It’s not – we – not all of us think that,” Castiel says, words stilted and rough like half formed thoughts, but he keeps going, “This planet is laden with wonders. And the creatures of Earth – the mechanics of your bodies are so complex – physical – intangible designs of unspeakable beauty.”

“We–,” the Seraph’s fingers twitch like he means to reach towards Dean, warm the sharp edges from his expression – like stone could ever bring heat, “We were supposed to protect you,” he finishes, eyes squeezing shut with the confession.

Paradise must be malfunctioning, because one moment Castiel’s wearing the world’s best poker face – a feat in itself since the Angel’s just recently received his all access pass to human emotion – and now his hands tremble in his lap, his chin quivers and he can’t even look at Dean. It’s like watching the first tremors of an earthquake and waiting for the rest to come.

“What do you mean?” Dean’s voice sounds like an echo though nothing preceded it.

“Your world is so young. We should have watched over you – but we are at war,” the Seraph says, jerking forward, a puppet on strings, “A war that has lasted for longer than you can comprehend with casualties that span solar systems. It was deemed a necessary act – to take advantage of this resource so we might finally end it.”

Castiel’s words are a wall that Dean’s mind can’t stop running into. He doesn’t know what to think, what to feel, but winter still holds his bones and Dean isn’t sure he can thaw the icy clutch.

“That doesn’t make anything better.”

Maybe Earth was some sort of galactic wildlife preserve, and maybe Dean should feel insulted, but he’s not and nothing changes. Because what’s the difference between being harvested as wearable life support systems or as body armour?

Castiel could tell him that they’re using Vessels to deliver divine commandments and it wouldn’t matter to Dean.

But before the Angel can say another word, there’s a piercing ring resounding through the sky. Dean reflexively hunches over, hands clapping over his ears at the shrill, unrelenting wail. Wetness trickles between his fingers and his head feels like it’s going to implode.

The rides and tents collapse around them in explosions of striped cloth and twisted metal. The grass shrivels and the earth swirls into a grey dust that flies up to meet the blackening sky. Dean isn’t the one doing it and he knows Becky isn’t a sloppy operator, so he grits his teeth and prepares for a violent Shut Down.

Time’s up and Dean’s failed.


	3. Chapter 3

The room is hot and thick with the scent of ozone, the humidity sticking his clothes to his skin.

“Dean!”

He’s exhausted and even turning his head under the weight of the air is an effort, but he does because his mind’s clear enough to know what’s happening.

“Dean! I’m so, so sorry I had to pull the plug, but we’ve gotta go,” she starts ripping lines out of Dean’s flesh, ignoring the weak swats he directs at her, “Did the Chrism take?”

Dean swallows thickly, throat dry, “He didn’t bite.”

Becky unhooks the Halo from Dean’s head, slides it carefully off and unwires the rest of the equipment threaded into Dean’s skin.

“We tried,” is all she says.

Dean closes his eyes; ashamed. They’d both known how slim the chance of success had been, but at the end, Dean hadn’t tried very hard at all. He’d given in to the need to hurt one of the creatures that had ruined them, and yeah, that had gotten a reaction out of Castiel. But it hadn’t even occurred to Dean to try getting the Angel to take the Hook again. He could say that he’d just run out of time, but excuses are excuses.

Becky pulls Dean up and lets him sag against the wall behind the cot, then pushes a pill under his tongue, “Tell me if your body is reacting badly to the emergency Shut Down – chest pains, trouble breathing–” hallucinations, sensory confusion, madness, she doesn’t say. Becky doesn’t know that Dean knows the other side effects, “–anything. That should help with the fatigue, but it won’t fix anything else, so you have to tell me so I can help,” warn her so she knows to watch out for trigger happy fingers. The only thing that could cure the more dangerous aspects is far away at the Stronghold.

She switches off the last of the equipment, “Chuck’s opening the underground – how do you feel? Can you walk?”

“I’m fine,” he lifts his head, neck aching with the effort, “I can.”

Becky looks at him, probably hearing the lie in his voice, but when Dean stands by his own power, limbs stable and controlled, she doesn’t call him on it. Dean’s a damn fine fighter and a key player in the Resistance, but everyone knows his real talent is in making his bullshit come true. So if Dean says he can walk, he’ll find a way to walk.

No one has to know that he’s past his limit.

The door to the passage springs open and Chuck stumbles through, face grey and breath whistling in and out through his teeth, “The Angel’s are in the building!”

“They just breached the ground floor. Maybe another ten minutes before they blow the basement locks,” he pants, but Becky’s already dragging Chuck behind her as they head to the underground.

Dean tosses one last look over his shoulder, sees Castiel still unconscious in the tank – empty now that the water has boiled away – then hurries after his team mates.

Every step sends a wave of dizziness rushing through him, sparks dotting his vision in alternating blotches of white and black. His heart is starting to beat irregularly and his chest feels like it’s being crushed by a trash compactor. Dean’s afraid he’ll collapse before they make it so when he trips over the black bag he’d left by the underground entrance earlier, he almost lets himself fall with relief.

“I’ve got explosives here,” denying his lungs the oxygen they crave for the sake of keeping a steady voice, “We can blow the entrance so the Angels can’t follow. You guys go on ahead while I set the charges–” Becky starts to say something, but Dean talks over her, “–There’s a chest with supplies and a map I left in case of emergencies – just follow the green arrows. The detonator’s back there, so I need you guys to help me get it.”

Becky shuts her mouth, lips thin.

When it looks like she’s going to disagree, Dean stands straighter, eyes flashing, barks, “Now. Go!”

She nods stiffly – ever efficient – pulls a flashlight from her waist and sprints off into the darkness of the underground.

Chuck is a little slower, shooting Dean a confused look as he steps through the seventh gate, “I thought Bobby took all the explosives with him when he–”

And then the gate is slammed in Chuck’s face.

Dean can hear Chuck’s faint cries through the thick metal, but he doesn’t try to decipher them. He has six more gates to close and then he has to drag his failing body down the hall and away from the underground entrance.

With every slam of a door behind him and the click of tumblers rolling into place, Dean feels a little lighter. His heart isn’t getting any better and his breathing isn’t any easier, but he knows that Chuck and Becky will be okay. Even if he’d told them that he’d just slow them down, he knows they wouldn’t have willingly left him. But they don’t have the time or equipment to stabilize him and he could become a danger to them, so it’s better he stays behind. There have been cases after emergency Shut Downs where the sleepers lost their sanity – untreated, the madness can strike at any time and Dean doesn’t want to be the next Gordon Walker, beheading all his teammates.

Besides, there aren’t any explosives, but Dean really did leave a chest of supplies in the underground. They’ll make it back to the Stronghold and there won’t be any Angels tailing them, not with Dean still in the building. He’s the one they want, so they can have his doomed body.

Dean leans back against the final door, pauses for a moment to heave in a shuddering breath, cold sweat trickling down his neck. Then he pushes off, stumbles his way down the hall, boots slapping against the thin film of dirty water that slicks the floor.

He’s almost at the end of the passageway when his legs give out and he slides to the ground, back propped against a wall as he wonders how it’ll go.

Maybe Castiel will wake up, once again the unreachable island, and he’ll finally finish Dean off. Somehow, it’s preferable to whatever random Angels busting in and beating Dean to death. Or maybe neither will be quick enough. It can take anywhere between four minutes and four days, but maybe Dean will just die quietly on the floor, the complications of a too fast Shut Down.

And after that, he doesn’t know what will happen. He hopes Sammy will be okay without him. He’s got Jess to lean on and a whole compound to support him. The Resistance might miss Dean for a while, but he knows someone will step up to the plate. And even if the Angel’s are obnoxiously powerful and the number of free humans has never been lower, Dean would like to think it’s not the end for them.

For Dean, it is – but not for everyone.

His heart has stopped skipping wildly, instead slowing slowing slowing. His breathing is erratic and his vision is fading in and out.

Dean can’t really feel the cold water seeping into his skin, but he hears it when the basement doors blow open; the shriek of metal peeling apart and crashing into the hall.

He hears the patter of rainwater dripping from the ceiling to the floor.

He hears the echoing taps of footsteps – sounds like three bodies – moving swiftly through the passageways.

He fumbles sluggishly for the gun tucked into the holster on his thigh – done on principle more than from a will to survive – and pulls it weakly to his chest. It makes it more difficult to breath, but he rests the butt of the gun against his ribs, propping the muzzle up with his hands.

It’ll have to be enough to just point and shoot in their general direction because Dean’s starting to hallucinate.

Castiel is standing in front of him, his back to Dean.

The Angel’s shoulders look tense and his back is rigidly straight. He’s wearing his trench coat again – the one that was left behind on the beach – and he has his shoes, and probably his socks too.

Strange how Dean would dream of Castiel in his last moments.

But it’s no stranger than the breeze Dean can feel beneath his fingers – impossible because he’s holding a gun – or the salt he can smell on the sand that doesn’t exist.

“Dean,” Castiel’s rough voice.

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean rasps, because what the hell, why not?

The tap tap tap of rain dripping down the passage is getting closer.

“What have you done to me?” gravel, shattered rock.

“Nothin’, Cas. You didn’t bite,” flops his head to the side, “Didn’t bite.”

Night and then it’s metal grinding as trains drive into walls, strikes of lightning flashing across the ceiling and the crash of cliffs tumbling to earth.

He wakes again and it’s thunder rolling through the valley, iron sides denting as eagles circle with silvered talons sweeping down.

Then it’s evening and the sun is sinking before Dean.

There’s sharp little rocks biting into his palms, so he lets go of what he’s holding.

Didn’t bite, he tells his hands, because no one can move a mountain – not the water or the wind or the sun.

“But mountains are worn away by the elements and men have carved into them,” the sculpture in front of Dean says, hesitantly like he’s not sure if he’s supposed to speak.

Dean didn’t realize he had company, “Not the same – only a mountain can move a mountain, y’ know?”

There’s meadow grass cradling Dean and the birds are calling for an answer, so Dean continues, “An avalanche; a rockslide.”

The ocean meets his eyes, murmurs against the shore, low and careful, “Dean, you’re not making any sense.”

“’M fine,” but then he remembers he’s not, because he’s got stuff to do, “I need ‘n apple.”

“The apples were fragments of Paradise, Dean,” silken touch of petals down his cheek, “There’s no need for them here.”

“Oh,” Dean says, disappointed, “But it’s how you start the mountain movin’,” he blinks, trying to focus through the cold creeping up his spine, “Can’t _make_ it move, but if you call loud ‘nough, the _mountain’ll come to you_.”

Then he brightens as the wind reminds him, “I’ve eaten apples – d’you think it’s ‘nough?”

Dean doesn’t give his shadow any time to respond, just rises up and presses his lips to stone.

It’s cold and unyielding, and then the statue is shaking apart, falling into sliding warmth – feeling and alive. It’s a slow and searing kiss, Dean breathing sweetly into the other’s mouth, filling the space between his lungs.

The summer sky looks down at him, calls his name with the voice of chipped marble – holds him close with the hands of man.

Dean smiles.

The taste was enough.


End file.
